


Brand Recognition

by boonies



Category: Deadpool (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boonies/pseuds/boonies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadpool takes a more sophisticated approach to finding Francis. AKA Wade leaves travel-sized bottles of Ajax everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brand Recognition

  * strictly movieverse



 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Rule number one of being a professional stalker: stalk smart.

 

So halfway through cracking a dude's skull open, knee-deep in his twenty-second growly rendition of _where the fuck is Francis_ , a light bulb finally goes off in Wade's head.

 

"Fuck _me_ ," he groans, dropping the corpse against the car's dented fender. "The fucking _dry cleaner_."

 

*

 

"There are twelve dry cleaners in this area," Dopinder says thoughtfully, one hand on the wheel.

 

"Blood stains, shit stains, mutant goo," Wade lists, leaning against the window, flesh around his missing hand knitting itself back together, "take me to one that deals with those."

 

"...sadly, that does not narrow it down..." Dopinder mumbles, hitting a pothole.

 

 

*

 

"Check again," Wade snaps at the sixth place, tapping his fingers on the counter. "Freeman."

 

The dry cleaner gives him a bored look, popping her gum. "Morgan or Martin."

 

" _Francis_ ," Wade warns, flapping a malformed baby hand in her face. "Give me his address."

 

"Yeah," she says, uninterested. A One Direction video loops on her laptop. "I don't have that."

 

Impatient, Wade splits the screen in half and grits out, sweetly homicidal, "His. Phone. Number. Then."

 

 

*

 

"...do you not..." Weasel starts, squinting, "do you not know how to google."

 

"This was my typing hand," Wade announces, launching himself at the couch and tossing a crumpled post-it note at the Vengeance Wall, "so you're my only google now, Obi-Wan."

 

"That's sweet and only slightly infringing on copyright," Weasel deadpans, then glances at the post-it, runs a quick reverse look-up on his phone, and makes a face. "Cool. Found it."

 

"Huh," Wade comments, hood peeling off his head, nub cooling, "that was weirdly easy."

 

"Yeah," Weasel agrees, "we gotta move the plot along."

 

 

*

 

 

Wade scales a seven-story building to leave a bottle of dish soap in the sink.

 

It's a very clean sink.

 

The bottle goes unnoticed for three days, so Wade leaves a travel-sized thing of Ajax in the shower.

 

"Unsanitary," he complains when it, too, goes unused.

 

Indignant, he tucks a bottle between the sofa cushions, stacks a couple twin-packs atop a neglected dryer, shoves a whole crate in an empty refrigerator.

 

"Ajax was a Greek warrior," Francis greets eventually, arms crossed, expression blank, gaze trained on Wade's crouched ass propping the fridge door open. "He was the strongest of the Achaeans."

 

"Gesundheit," Wade nods, wise.

 

Features darkening, Francis kicks a leg out, the heel of his boot catching Wade's shoulder, and demands, incredulous, "You do realize I made you indestructible, yes?"

 

"And completely unfuckable," Wade whines, dodging the fridge door.

 

"Not _completely_ unfuckable," Francis reasons with indifference, extracting a massive machete out of a belt strap. "A significant portion of the population is blind."

 

Annoyed, Wade sprawls on the floor, dual-unsheathing his katanas with a pointed, "Just make me fuckable again and I'll do you quick. I can't guarantee painless but definitely quick. Maybe. Depends on the final word count and my refractory period."

 

"See, _this_ is your problem," Francis lectures and swings his machete at the kitchen tile, aim shit, "you place entirely," he realigns and strikes at Wade's crotch with a strained grunt, "too. much. importance on fucking."

 

"Says the eunuch," Wade taunts, narrowly avoiding the tip.

 

Francis pauses, jaw clenching. "I'm not a—these are _enhancements_."

 

Wade rolls to the side, blocking him with a katana. "Fix my face and we'll talk."

 

Amused—possibly—Francis stares for a moment.

 

"Try Proactiv," he suggests and hurls the machete at Wade's mask, cutting a broad slit by his temple.

 

Wade hops out of the way, into the living room, vaults over the sofa, and halfway up the ceiling. "As much as I appreciate quality banter and obsolete infomercials," he explains, "I'm here for one of two reasons—"

 

"To de-grease my flat," Francis agrees, British.

 

Unamused, Wade drops from the ceiling, one hand on his hip. "One: it's a fucking _apartment_ ," he gripes and punctuates it with a swift kick to Francis' face, blood spattering on his boot buckle, "and TWO, you fix me or you die. And. You fix me _and_ you die, my bad, I've had very little sleep since you, you know." He bounces a katana off Francis' bald head like a frisbee. "Ruined my fucking life."

 

Francis body-checks him into a hallway wall, coat hook shanking the left side of his nape.

 

"Technically," he argues, slamming his elbow into Wade's windpipe, mouth-breathing on his chin, "I _saved_ it."

 

"You staked me through the heart like a fucking vampire," Wade complains, struggling for air, "and then left me in a burning building."

 

"I provided you with an origin story," Francis points out smugly, mouth twitching.

 

Wade heaves him off, drawing both guns. "I have five bullets left."

 

Francis leans his forehead into one of the barrels, a hard thing jabbing at Wade's hip. "I've got fifteen."

 

"And here I was," Wade says theatrically, gun steady, "thinking you were just happy to see me."

 

"I _am_ happy to see you, Mr. Wilson," Francis admits, sliding a gun barrel up Wade's ribcage. "I hated the notion of you dying without my name on your lips."

 

"That's suuuper romantic," Wade tells him obnoxiously, " _Francis_ —"

 

Francis headbutts him without preamble, then flapjacks him to the ground, guns scattering across an ugly black rug.

 

"Say my name."

 

"I've seen this exact porno," Wade protests, pawing for a discarded blade or gun of any kind, "and if this is the part where we hate-fuck—"

 

Offended, Francis narrows his eyes and dumps the gun, mouth thinning into an angry line. "Just say it and you can go."

 

"NO," Wade snarls, exasperated, " _I'm_ the one who decides—fuck—never mind, just pump me full of your—wait, I should rephrase." He pauses, voice softening. "I know there's gotta be something to fix me." He pulls the mask up to his nose, half-genuine. "An injection. Or two. Right?"

 

Francis bends to pick up a katana and casually drives it through Wade's thigh, bolting him to the ground. "Your priorities are senseless."

 

"Well, I guess you'd know all about sensel—"

 

Undeterred, Francis steps over him, looming, and stabs the other katana through Wade's palm. "Oh. I see you like to be penetrated."

 

With an annoyed impressed noise, Wade shifts. "Okay, was a pretty good line."

 

Francis drops to his knees, straddling Wade's neck, crotch pressing against Wade's jaw. "It's still not too late to rejoin the reclamation project."

 

Wade puffs at the zipper rubbing him raw. "This probably shouldn't be a turn-on," he narrates to no one in particular, "I really think we both learned an important lesson today—"

 

"I like a challenge," Francis continues, deaf. "I'd appreciate another crack at breaking you."

 

Sighing, Wade gestures with his wrist. "Look, I spent like forty bucks setting this up, those laundry capsules alone were a couple of Hamiltons."

 

"It's too late for a redemption arc anyway," Francis says, stuck in an entirely different conversation. "How many people have you killed simply searching for me."

 

"Murder's kinda like Pringles," Wade replies, itchy. "Once you pop..."

 

Flattered, Francis squeezes him between his thighs. "So join me."

 

Wade considers.

 

"You got something," he says and violently pushes up, metal sliding out of his flesh, blood trickling down his wrist and inner thigh, body twisting until he's firmly atop Francis, crotch pushing at his mouth, "in your teeth."

 

"Let me guess," Francis says into the fabric, sounding done. "You."

 

Wade grins.


End file.
